


the adults are talking

by bullets



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Current era, M/M, Nostalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:07:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28588509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bullets/pseuds/bullets
Summary: his foxhole friends sleep in different beds now.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	the adults are talking

_hotel night_ doesn't hold the same charm that it used to.

three syllables, ten letters— it's funny, the kinds of things people assign meaning to. there's a whole group of people out there who hear the words _hotel night_ and a funny feeling kicks up in their chest. relief, maybe, anticipation— nostalgia, if they're old like he is. 

and it's a testament to that saying, too; _absence makes the heart grow fonder,_ except now he isn't sure which absence he's referring to when he thinks that. 

the absence of beds, maybe, of mattresses that don't even have to be _nice,_ no, but just need to leave his spine feeling a little less crooked than the ones on the tour bus. the absence of the tour bus, perhaps, or maybe even just the tour at all. the absence of the crowds, of the stage— the absence of the boys in the band and the closeness, above all else, of two queen-sized beds shoved together and shared between four grown men.

they're too old for that now, and even if they weren't, there's no need.

so, _hotel night_ isn't as charming as it used to be. he doesn't feel young and set ablaze. he isn't scrappy anymore; he doesn't have to do it himself. there are four different boys going up against the world in their own shitty van now, another band of jewel thieves hiding their riches in a different pair of queen-sized mattresses.

gerard wonders if everything will go horribly wrong for them, and, if it does, if they will find a way to reconcile it. 

either way, his foxhole friends sleep in different beds now. he tries not to let nostalgia eat him alive, but it does. 

just as it's having its second course, though, there's a knock on his door, firm and hollow and ringing out through his near-empty hotel room. there's about a dozen people it could be, but he'd be grateful for any of them. 

when gerard opens the door, frank's standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants, barefoot and illuminated by the hall lights that never seem to go out. it's silly, but gerard's first thought is that frank looks lost— not out of place in this hallway, no, but not at home. 

he can't help but think that the lights stick to frank's skin unnaturally, catch on his features both too much and not enough. maybe it's because gerard's always thought that frank looks the most himself in low lighting anyway, lit up by a dangling lightbulb in the basement of one of their friends. maybe it's just because gerard feels out of place, too, far, far away from home and anything his at all.

and how could he feel at home anyway, when frank's standing out in the hallway like that?

so, gerard steps aside, and there's a question on his lips, but it dies when frank walks in. the door shuts behind the two of them, and the space between them closes, too, the gap sealed up loosely as they slip into bed together. 

moves are practiced, but rusty. frank's leg slips between gerard's, gerard's fingers go for frank's hair, and before their mouths are really slotted together, gerard can feel the upturned corners of frank's lips against his own. 

oh, perfect boy. doesn't he know that he tastes like yesterday and all the days before that, too? gerard's too old for this, but he hardly feels like it at all. when frank kisses him like that, it's like they never stopped, and in some ways, maybe they never did.

gerard considers saying _i missed you,_ but it doesn't feel quite right. _i miss you_ is closer to what he means, though if frank said it back, gerard thinks his heart might just stop.

it's already jackhammering in his chest, after all, leaping up into his throat when he gasps into frank's open mouth. 

a hand finds its way between them, ceaseless and warm. one hand becomes two, breathing turns heavy, and the sounds frank makes against gerard's lips are enough to make him dizzy. 

it ends with the two of them panting against each other, a messy spot between them that gerard _knows_ he has to get up to clean, but doesn't want to. it's too nice to be like this: to be young and dumb, and stupid and grown, and in love, of course, more than anything else.

"fuck," frank says, and the word's as pretty in his mouth as it always has been, "hotel night."

a funny feeling kicks up in gerard's chest. three syllables, ten letters— he catches frank's lips in another kiss.


End file.
